“Learn to light a candle in the darkest moments of someone’s life. Be the light that helps others see; it is what gives life its deepest significance.” – Roy T. Bennet

Posts tagged ‘story’


Ghosts that I try to bury, but they disappear when I reach for them. They are tricky and fast, too fast for my clumsy hands. Every waking hour is spent in decline, in a bubble of voices only I can understand. Hear me now: I am not alone, but I wish I were.

As a child I was different. Not different as in I knew more than others, or less than others, or that I came from a cult, or was delivered by a stork. I was different as the wind is different from the sea, and yet they live in harmony. I lived in harmony. Other kids connected with me well. They would tease me and joke around with me and play with me on the swings. I wasn’t an outcast, by any means. I simply was there, biding my time, because…perhaps I did know more. Perhaps I knew something I shouldn’t.

As I drag myself up the stairs, my body nearly decayed as the dirt, I look three times my age. Knowledge ages you, I suppose, paired with apparitions and whispers than nobody else notices. Those age you more than cigarettes.

I grew up in a steady way. Born in a hospital; raised in a small house with a brother and a mother and a father.  I went to school  and I learned at a normal pace. But do you know what made me different? What made me different was the fact that my eyes and ears could hear and see more. I never said anything about the fingers that grabbed at the hair of my classmates, or the footsteps that echoed through the halls. At first I thought it was only at school, but the rattling in my kitchen changed that thought.  Sometimes the water would run unnoticed by my family. Sometimes I would run, unnoticed by my family. Running was my safe haven. While life was going past my sight fast, I couldn’t see the things that weren’t supposed to be there, and all I could hear was the whistling of wind in my ears. Running meant freedom.

I remember when I lost it. When my head  couldn’t take it anymore and I cried out to the first person I could reach. I grew angry, yelling at them, “Why can’t you see? Why can’t you see?” I was alone in the way that it matters to be alone.

When I blew I was in class. The things that I saw were going and going, around and around, all over the room. Dust was flying, dust that only I could see. I wanted to brush it away, off their sleeves and their desks, but it landed, layer by layer. Their lips moved in a fish-like motion. I couldn’t concentrate with the grit at their noses and mouths. The teacher was sucking it in like a vacuum, each word breathing in a cloud. I stood and I spoke and they looked at me as they should have: as though I was a freak, a mistake, a blip in the average human DNA. I ran.

The fear I remember. When I think of it, it consumes me. I see spots and I shake and I jump at the slightest noise. Are they coming? Have they found me after all this time? I am a stranger in the eyes of the beholder. Nobody knows me. Nobody cares to know me.

I was eighteen. I was energy, unstoppable in my descent to ruin. The city found me, with its lights and signs drawing me in like a moth.  That is where I stayed, moving only to keep from being detected as an abnormality.  Friendly spirits tried to guide me, but they ruined my mind, so how could I let them? Somebody knew.  As I resided in a park and I spoke to the trees, I was watched. She came out of nowhere. The bushes I consider to be nowhere.  Just a pale face, staring with uncertainty. I had frightened her, with my hand motions and my exasperation with the demons. She saw me look at her, and she bolted like a deer on a highway. I listened to her agitated ramblings for a while, leaning back on the bench. Eventually, though, two more forms appeared, unwittingly stumbling into an invisible web as they crashed through the foliage, demanding to know my problems, my secrets. They didn’t even notice the spider.

Why I didn’t run then, I do not know. I was tired, I guess. But I was examined, and by all accounts I was completely honest during the examination. I told them what I saw, what I heard. They looked at me with pity and a small amount of anger, for some odd reason. They entrapped me in a white jacket, even though I had never harmed myself or anyone else in my life. My parents were frantic when I was found, and even more frantic when they had to send me away to “a safer place.” I know the truth. I am not crazy.

It was my apparition that got me out of there. This particular apparition was a favorite of mine. We never raised our voices at each other, and he never appeared when I was busy.  In many ways he was me: calm, friendly, curious, self-reliant. He came to my rescue after several months of torture. The torture wasn’t meant to be torture, but that is what it was, nonetheless. He came with his hands and a key. The key. And so I took off in the night, with fresh scars and newly acquired static electricity as my friend.  Needless to say, the last torture session didn’t come with any miraculous breakthroughs.

Now I live in the middle of nowhere, a crippled body after my veins began to reject the poisons they had pumped into me. There was no cure; there is no cure. I see what I see and that is all I can see. There was a dark shadow looming over me in a field that night. It meant a place to rest my head and hide away from the world. I survive on nothing but rain and the animals that nest here with me. I will never be found, and they will never know. Do you want to?

My ghosts are the thing that I shouldn’t know. Nobody should know about life after death, the ultimate secret. My secret.



The Cloud That Beat The Sun

yes i figure that instead of looking cold

you could put a smile there

and the way i see it my my mind

it would be the best of all


or go ahead believing in the story

of the cloud that beat the sun

but you’ll get tired of saying “never”

and you’ll let a “maybe” fall


soon you’ll see as well as i

that the air is really warm

and you’ll be staring in the faces

that have come to cheer you on


or go ahead believing in the story

of the cloud that beat the sun

and just forget about the colors

of the one that should’ve won


like a snail do you wish it on your back

you were carrying your home?

only to abandon every thought

at the slightest hint of snow?


but go ahead believing in the story

of the cloud that beat the sun

you should know i’ll be behind you

when you find your time to run

© 2011 singinthebreeze.wordpress.com


He told his story like it was brand new

For the hungry children to listen to

He cleared his throat and he took his time

Because sitting there was all they could do

They left behind all their pains and worries

And imagined life as it was meant to be

As they whistled softly to the minstrel’s music

They thought of places that they couldn’t see

While the world grew colder than ever

You could see it in their eyes that they didn’t feel a thing

And the man was sad when it was over

So he sang another song and left them to their dreams

© 2011 singinthebreeze.wordpress.com


Once upon a time, a baby boy was born. Now, baby boys are born often enough, but this one was special. Well, he wasn’t really, not yet, that is.

This little boy grew up. When he turned fifteen he ran away, like many other nice boys his age. He was caught and sent home as he was jumping the neighbor’s fence. Punished, as usual. Then he turned thirty.

Whoa, whoa, just, whoa there. He didn’t go from fifteen to thirty. What I meant was, he grew up even more, and became a man. The years in between have little mattering to the story.

Well, Phil, ’cause that was his name, was a little plain. His nose was all bony, and his eyebrows were all bushy, and his ears stuck way out from his head. When he was thirteen, he’d wanted to join the army, and had gotten a buzz-cut. Yeah, he still had it. Girls just didn’t much like the sight of him.

So thirty, single, and not enjoying it, Phil began to wonder what was wrong. He figured it was because he didn’t have a beard, cause he was unable to grow one. He went to the store, and bought a Gandalf costume, and used the fake beard that came with it. Unfortunately, it made him look ridiculous, and he quickly dumped it.

Saddened by the fact that no girl would look his way, and that no matter what he did it just wouldn’t help, Phil gave up and decided to live out his life long dream to become a rockstar. Thankfully, he was turned down before he even got to knock.

And then he found Brittany, the perfect girl for him. She was only slightly less homely, with long hair and an honest face. When Phil walked up to her, his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Could she be the one? Would his endless searching finally end? He was afraid to find out. But he spoke to her.

“H-h-hello,” he said.

My friends, Brittany took one look at him and spit in his face. Then she took off running. Too late, Phil realized he’d had a sudden case of bad acne, probably from sweating so much, and all his richest hopes were crushed, except one.

Brittany’s dog had liked Phil more than his owner did. When Brittany ran, Phil gained a friend. His first ever. His name was Edward.

Okay, maybe I lied about Phil being special. I met him once, he ran me off the yard with a shotgun.



© 2011 singinthebreeze.wordpress.com

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